Bent Words

Bent Words

October 04, 2014

I hate the dentist.

I don't hate MY dentist. She's baller. Older but beautiful with a perfect smile and gentle touch. But I hate going to the dentist. I hate all the roads that lead to the dentist. Their dumb closed exits and endless construction and my inability to be on time because of this. I hate the anticipation of metal on tooth, metal on nerves, metal on me. I hate waiting for all this to happen to me sitting in a room with other dental work needy people who won't smile at me because they're scared, too.

Nothing clenches my cheeks together more than the dentist.


I used to hate winter.

But now I have a hot tub in a room with a view, with cable TV and a remote so it's not so bad.

Nothing says F YOU to winter like 104 degrees of bubbling bliss!

Of course there's also the anticipation of Halloween -- the spooky decorations and the Squeaker dressed up, ready for her belabored task of garnering candy for us less than willing to beg door to door. Her sweet and smiling face as she pretends she is her little idol -- Minnie Mouse. How the sight of sparkling shoes and a matching bag can make her twinkle and shine.

The thought of Thanksgiving with its hearty promise of cheesy potatoes and mashed potatoes and potatoes al gratin. Ahhhhh, The Wonderful World of Carbs! And how my endless tears of thanks are forgiven for an evening, maybe two, as I relish this life for all it has to offer and all it has provided me. A day I used to fight for so I could be with my immediate family but have since turned over to my husband and his family extended.

How I used to loathe Christmas music and now want to set up the cheery scene the day after we've stuffed ourselves with turkey, Captain and love. Our fireplace dazzled with stockings, our tree glistening with lights, our hearts set on snow and sledding and snowmobiles and Santa. It's all coming back to me -- those childhood days I spent under the tree, dreaming of reindeer and cookies and presents. Walking out on the ice to the island, sitting on our special log and hot chocolate waiting for us on the other side of our journey.

How Mom and Dad made the magic that solidified the memories.


Our house hates me.

Yesterday, after work and after gathering groceries and making a wicked homemade alfredo with three cheese tortellini, veggies and chicken, I went to go pick up the Squeaker. I could not, however, get the garage door to go down. After several minutes of frustration hitting the clicker, the exterior wall mount and the interior wall mount, I decided to say SCREW YOU as loudly as possible without alerting the neighbors and lock the door that leads from our garage to our home. I would gain access from the rarely utilized front door of the house.

Upon our return, I went to open the front door and...


One big fat dumb stupid bag of nothing happened. I could not open the damned door for the life of me.

No set of combos worked, the keys I had were legit (used a few times previous) and I had to pee like you would not imagine.

"Mommy, I have poopies."


I brought the Squeaks to the garage where I opened a gallon of bubbles, asked her to forget her untoilet-trained woes and kicked the door that I knew we had no key for. That helped. A little. I told the kiddo to go to town while Mommy feverishly attempted to close the garage door and while she was gleefully swallowing more bubble mix than she blew, I peed in her Roadmaster Red Wagon. Mom Bladders wait for no one.

Then I called the hubby.

"Sure, sure, I'll take off work now and come and get you in the house," he said confidently, as though I were inept at the fine art of unlocking doors and he was a freakin' AAA locksmith.

Forty minutes and three Coors Lights later (for luckily I wasn't locked out of our garage fridge), the man with the plan busted through our front door only by barreling into it at full force thus knocking the latch right off the door frame. So now we don't have a real front door, a garage door or an interior garage door door. But we got in (with the dogs next door barking loudly at our curses and neighbors peeking curiously out their living room windows).

Gave the kiddo a bath after she spilled about a gallon's worth of bubbles all over herself, enjoyed my bitchin' alfredo and slept soundly knowing our home was all access to anyone hoping to lighten us of our year's worth of purchased goods.

Give it all you got, guys, we're not rich. Nor can you crack the code of the gun safe downstairs, where our three savage pitbulls are kept safe and snug.... Seriously, though. We have the TVs that Good Will won't take so have at her. Pretty f'ing please, yo. The most expensive things we own are our hot tub, our washer and dryer and our stand up freezer purchased with my fire money. All insured, warrantied and YOURS if you can figure out a way to move them without waking the baseball bat wielding, gun toting, light sleeper that I am.


I love cooking.

Which is definitely different.

I don't have a ton of time to give it its full due but when I have a spare hour or two, OH THE THINGS I CAN DO.

I can make a BITCHIN' potato soup. Even when I add turnips to the mix, it turns out great. Secret ingredient = cayenne pepper. Not too much or you'll choke your guests but just enough to turn out the squeamish ones. There's just something about this soup that makes everything better; especially dark, cold and rainy days like today.

Breaded eggplant parmesan. Nailed it. Takes forever but done correctly makes even the Squeaker happy.

Corned beef brisket. Not much of a hands on dish when you just dump it all into a slow cooker and walk away for eight hours but I'm super aggressive with spices and, well, that's the way it should be.

Chicken spaghetti. Probably not the best for you but nothing compliments chicken better than red peppers for this tasty dish. Trust.

That's all I got for now.

Until next time, kiddos....

There's more and there will be even more than that.

Written at 4:12 p.m.